


Reunited

by mishasfuckinghipbones



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Reunion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-31
Updated: 2013-05-31
Packaged: 2017-12-13 14:19:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 903
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/825258
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mishasfuckinghipbones/pseuds/mishasfuckinghipbones
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John comes home to a familiar figure.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Reunited

**Author's Note:**

> For my gorgeous friend Melissa, who helps me keep writing through all the support she gives me!

It's early on a dull Thursday when it happens.

There's nothing special about the day, John is returning from an uneventful corner shop run (out of milk and tea bags - that wouldn't do) and is slightly damp from the fine drizzle outside.

He hobbles up the stairs of 221B, plastic bag in one hand, cane in the other.

There hasn't been much to life since Sherlock had died. No action, no British government, no sitting in Buckingham Palace in nothing but a sheet. Just, bland, bitter, repetitive life.

The pain in Johns leg had came back with a vengeance, almost matching his resentment for this new taste of boring life with nothing but bittersweet memories. Finally he understood what Sherlock meant by being bored. Everything was so... normal. Mundane. He'd once told Sarah mundane was good. He takes it back now.

John gets to the third last step before noticing anything.

His senses had definitely dulled, not that he's really cared. They'd been hyper active for about a month. Then when John realised his best friend couldn't grant his one last miracle, life started to drag by, time unnoticed.

He stops on the third last step. Not that he was any consulting detective, but someone is definitely in his flat right now. No forced entry, by the looks of the lock, but the intruder is letting him know they're in there by leaving the door open slightly.

Anticipation swallows Johns mind. After nothing remotely exciting for years, a simple break in has his heart rate racing. He's not armed but he has a cane which'll have to do, and oddly enough the pain in his leg has dulled a bit.

Lifting his cane above his head in striking position, John limps up the last few stairs and slides through the door without much noise at all.

The scene in front of him fills him with a variety of emotions, the first one being shock, causing him to drop the cane and plastic bag containing milk and tea bags.

He doesn't notice that the glass bottles shatter when the connect with the floor. He doesn't notice the musical tinkle of the glass breaking. He doesn't notice his shoes are soaked with milk.

He does notice the thin, pale figure sitting where he used to always sit. He does notice that the violin case has been polished and opened. He does notice that tiny hint of smile and the cocky "Problem?" that follows.

The ghost gets up and walks across the room - hardly making a sound – to where John stands. He's gotten impossibly paler, thinner, and worry and confusion hits John as he begins to hyperventilate. John stumbles back and the intruder reaches for him, but he manages to keep his balance without meeting the others gaze or touch.

This cannot be real.

Three years of waiting, the depressions, the anxiety attacks, the complete loneliness due to friendships turned sour. Then the eventual, habitual routine of nothing.

And Sherlock had been alive all this time?

Anger surges through John and he curls one of his hands into a fist while the other is on his chest, trying to steady his shaky, fast breaths. Using most of his body, John swings his fist into Sherlock's face, hitting him just under the eye. Sherlock falls back, letting out a moan of pain and bringing his hands up to his face.

John's vision blurs. A buried memory of The Woman surfaces.

_“Somebody loves you. Well, if I had to punch that face, I'd avoid your nose and teeth too.”_

He'd done it again. After everything, he still couldn't even _hit_ him properly.

And John was a soldier. He'd killed people.

It was that deep voice that pulled John from his thoughts. It hadn't changed a bit, though John felt an ounce of glee that he'd knocked the smug tone out of it.

“Okay, okay, I saw that coming, I deserved that. But I had to go, John! To save your life!” Sherlock sounds pleading and sad, voice threaded with apology. He's picked himself up from the impact and stood in front of his only friend.

John is dumbfounded. He'd hardly registered what this phantom had said. This couldn't possibly be real. The man in front of him had to be a ghost. Did he really feel himself punch his old friend, or was he dreaming? God knows he's thought about him coming back before.

John raises both hands slowly, and Sherlock flinches – probably expecting to be hit again. He places his hands gently on Sherlock's shoulders, as if worried his fingers would melt straight through him like an apparition.

He studies the taller mans features, the cheekbones, the eyes, the lips. Johns fingers move swiftly and lightly till they're resting on Sherlocks cheeks, cupping his face delicately. Pushing himself up a little on his feet, and using where his hands are, he pulls Sherlock into a soft kiss.  
  
The consulting detective makes a shocked noise before relaxing into it and bringing his hand up to meet Johns where it's still caressing his face, and hooking his other arm around the ex-army doctors shoulders.  
  
It doesn't last long before John pulls away.  
  
“Well. I wasn't expecting _that_.” Sherlock murmurs, resting his forehead against Johns.  
  
That's a first, John thinks.  
  
“That's because you're a bloody idiot.” He says.  
  
Sherlock huffs a laugh before pulling the doctor in for another kiss. 


End file.
